


No More Darkened Doors

by OwenToDawn



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Crying, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Hopeful Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Sexual Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 10:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20226241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwenToDawn/pseuds/OwenToDawn
Summary: “If I said I didn’t want to talk about it, would you let it go?” Balthier asks.“Of course,” Basch says, voice steady as always, as if he hadn’t watched Balthier in the throes of a flashback.





	No More Darkened Doors

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for a very brief dialogue flashback of a sexual assault of a minor at the very beginning of the fic. If you wish to skip past it, it's in italics. 
> 
> Title from Lantern by The White Birch
> 
> Thanks to Misha for the read through
> 
> I found this fic half finished on my phone and was in a mood to finish it so here it is. Comments are loved.

Balthier pokes the bite mark on his shoulder, a sleepy and somewhat fond smile tugging at his lips as he examines himself in the mirror. It’d been awhile since Basch let himself let go enough to do something like this. Despite Balthier’s enthusiastic encouragement, he always restrains himself. Balthier did too much of that in the past not to throw himself wholeheartedly into any encounter, whether it be a fight or sex or some combination of the two. He finishes wiping his face clean and steps back into the bedroom.

Basch sprawls on his stomach in the bed, one arm shoved under the pillow his face is pressed to with the other stretched out over it, fingers curling in the fabric. It’s kind of adorable. Balthier climbs into bed beside him. For a moment, everything is fine as he stretches out on his front, hands reaching up and then twisting in the silk sheets-

_“I’ll rip your fucking balls off!”_

_A hand slaps the back of his head, his face slamming into the headboard, blood spilling-_

“Balthier!”

The shout jolts him out of the memory, an old one he hadn’t thought of in years. He growls and shoves Basch away before rolling out of bed, fury that should be long dead coiling in his belly and trying to claw its way into his chest. He slams the door shut to the bathroom. Not even a second later, Basch knocks.

"I just need a minute,” Balthier says.

Looking at himself in the mirror now, he feels no fondness. It’s like someone shoved a rock in his stomach, the cold weight sitting low in his gut and making everything feel wrong. His past was a mess, but one he’d come to terms with. Or at least he thought he had. Now, it was like he was fourteen years old again, stupid and foolish, ready to lash out at anything and anyone. The last person he wanted to inflict that whirlwind on was Basch.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door. Basch wears a look of concern that makes the stone in Balthier’s stomach grow colder.

“If I said I didn’t want to talk about it, would you let it go?” Balthier asks.

“Of course,” Basch says, voice steady as always, as if he hadn’t watched Balthier in the throes of a flashback.

Then again, he was a soldier. He’d probably seen his fair share of such things. It wasn’t as comforting of a thought as it should have been.

"When did you get silk sheets?” Balthier asks.

“Two days ago. Larsa insisted. Said it was about time I stopped living like I was a fugitive,” Basch says with a small smile.

Normally, Balthier would return it. He liked Larsa – they all did. He was a good kid, and he’d make a fine leader. He already did and he wasn’t even eighteen. But all he can think of is how many Arcadian nobles have already tried to prey on Larsa and the ones that still were. It’s one thing about Arcadia that will never change.

“I have some cotton blankets around somewhere,” Basch says. He reaches out and Balthier stays stone still as he squeezes his wrist once in what is meant to be reassurance. “I’ll be right back.”

Balthier watches him head out of the room and then heads for the large bay window, settling in the nook with its expensive pillows for padding. Basch’s suite overlooks the palace gardens. It’s still pretty even when bathed in moonlight alone. Balthier never saw the appeal. It seemed like a waste of time and energy, even if he himself appreciated beautiful things.

The door clicks shut, signaling Basch’s return. Balthier spares a glance in his direction, something in his chest loosening when he sees Basch’s arms full of cotton blankets. He raises an eyebrow in silent question. Even in the near complete darkness, Balthier can make out the way Basch’s cheeks flush.

"What is it?” Balthier asks.

“You’ll think it’s foolish,” Basch says, dropping the sheets on the trunk at the foot of his bed before busying himself with stripping away the silk.

“I won’t,” Balthier says.

Vulnerability. That’s new for them.

“It’s just…you look beautiful there. With the moonlight. And my marks,” Basch says, his voice gruff.

As if complimenting someone is something to be embarrassed by.

“Thank you,” Balthier says.

It’s hard to accept the compliment as a statement and not a manipulation tactic, and given the small smile on Basch’s lips as he secures the fitted cotton sheet, he knows Basch understands the exchange for what it is. Vulnerability for vulnerability. He watches as Basch finishes remaking the bed, only getting up when he’s nearly done to help throw the pillows back on before climbing up on it.

“Better?” Basch asks as he joins him.

“Much, thank you,” Balthier says again.

It feels odd, getting into bed together with the sole purpose of sleeping. Usually they just clean up and go to sleep and Balthier disappears out the window before Basch wakes up the next morning. But this feels different. Their usual dance has been interrupted. It would make sense if he just left. But he doesn’t want to. More than anything, he wants to slip beneath the covers and push himself into Basch’s warmth to chase out the bits of memory that still cling to his skin.

Basch turns towards him once they’re both under the covers. It’s easy to meet his eyes when he looks at him with such warmth.

“May I hold you?” he asks.

Balthier nods, suddenly finding himself incapable of a single word. Basch moves slow, his rough and calloused hand, nothing like that of a pampered noble, smoothing over his shoulder and then down his arm before shifting closer and letting his hand move across Balthier’s lower back. Balthier lets himself be pulled closer. He lets Basch slide his other arm under his pillow for support and then lets himself wrap his arms around Basch in turn.

The feeling of skin on skin with no intention of anything else is somehow the most erotic thing he’s ever felt. Pure indulgence. 

“It’s okay,” Basch says.

Balthier opens his mouth to ask what he means and finds the taste of wet salt on his lips. His heart begins to pound, horrified that he could cry without realizing. Basch’s fingers rub along his lower back,

“Sometimes, Larsa still calls me Noah when we’re alone. He’s a good man. He always insisted that while I must pretend for the courts, he refuses to have our relationship be built on a lie. But I don’t think he can help it. He sees the face of a man who cared for him more than anyone else did,” Basch says. “Of course that doesn’t make it hurt less.”

The tears come faster, hot and wet, burning his face, and Basch keeps talking, opening up his wounds so Balthier isn’t alone in his weakness.

“The loneliest feeling is when I wake up and you’re not there. I know you can’t stay and we can’t have a normal life together, but in those moments where I have to become Noah again and leave Basch behind, I feel like the weight of that loneliness could crush me.” Basch presses his lips to Balthier’s forehead. “It’s worth it though, to have these moments of peace with you.”

Balthier shakes in his arms, eyes squeezing shut tight as a few more tears slip through. Basch squeezes him closer.

“Ashe told me you were made a Judge by your father,” Basch says, rubbing his hand down Balthier’s spine. “At sixteen no less. That’s an amazing feat.”

“And it broke me,” Balthier chokes out. He has to fight down the urge to choke his own tears away and compose himself, forcing himself to stay in the moment and return the moment of weakness. So that they’re even.

“I don’t see a broken man before me,” Basch says, voice firm.

Balthier goes still, chest tight, before he looks up at Basch who stares down at him with such fondness, such _love_that he feels undone. “I…”

"They didn’t break you,” Basch says. “Whoever made you run. They didn’t break you, Balthier.”

“I can’t even talk about it,” Balthier says.

“And I can never speak about some of the greatest moments of betrayal in my life,” Basch says. “But this? Letting yourself feel this with me? That is strength, Balthier. That’s the strength that makes me…that makes me _love _you.”

Balthier isn’t good with words, not when he’s being honest, so he kisses Basch instead, pours as much love as he can into the action even if it’s stained with the bitterness of his tears. They may not be able to have a noble house in the country, or ride together through the airs in the Strahl. But they had this.

A moment together in the moonlight. A moment of vulnerability and truth. That meant more than anything else in the world.


End file.
